The Pop Fop


Snobbery & Decay


Fated to Die: Romantic Fatalism and the Twink (Selections)

The almost spiritual contemplation of male beauty is a persistent theme in Western literature and one that is often tied closely with death. Consider the word fey which today is mostly used to describe someone as slightly efeminate, whimiscal or delicate. A more exact definition means either “fated to die” or “appearing under a spell.” Now consider the plot of Death in Venice where Aschenbach, a widowed writer, becomes obsessed with the beauty of Tadzio, an adolscent boy he sees on vacation. While never even speaking to the boy (notice the lack of actual engagement), the protagonist finds his beauty increasingly rapturous. Could it be that Tadzio is actually representative of beauty itself, rather than a simple physical desire? As Aschenbach’s obsession increases, he finds himself becoming increasingly ill. He dies shortly after a brief visual acknowledgement by Tadzio on the beach.

In other representations, it is the beautiful male himself who is destined for tragedy. Cather’s Paul’s Case features a teenaged protagonist who elicits the usual euphemisms: troubled, overly concerned with beauty, ambitious, desirous of power and glamour, elitist, ill of health.  In Cather’s short story, Paul runs away from home and adopts a stylish and wealthy persona after stealing one thousand dollars from his employer.  Upon learning that his crime has been discovered and his father is in transit to bring him home, he commits suicide by jumping in front of a train.  His refusal to live a mundane existence, the immediatism of his desires, and his blind overvaluing of aesthetic beauty all conspire in a determinist narrative where flight from the material world is the only option.

It should be noted that the romantic fatalism of which the fey principle is an example, is separate from the sexuality imbued in the adolescent nihilism of Dennis Cooper and Larry Clark.  The works of Cooper and Clark rather reflect a negative liberty which produces self destruction, experimentation, amorality and a complete denial of body ownership.  Wether this is purely a guilt mechanism for a section of the bohemian class which wants to party with young and attractive wastrels, drug addicts and criminals or a simple tribute to Genet, it does not fall under the rubric of the thesis presented.  The realization of the fey relates to the gap between the real and the ideal.  It is about the impossibility of living the aesthete narrative, with specific relation to certain classical archetypes of male beauty.

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Dennis Cooper scrapbooks ‘81

Marcus Ewert: Crown Prince of Early 1990s Indie Twinks

A Halloween Story, DC Inspired

Today my friend J came over.  We went for a walk because it was such a nice night.  The New England air was sweet as it twirled golden leaves around its invisible fingers.  We came across a group of teenagers coalescing  on a street corner.  I recognized one as the chump who tried to rob me a week earlier.  I told J who had already heard the original story.  We decided to give them the bum’s rush to show them what’s what.  “I know you motherfuckers!”, I shouted as we charged towards them.  The kids all scattered except for my special little Vietnamese friend who, while looking apprehensive , stayed put.  This probably had more to do with the smirk on my face as I ran up to him than his inherent toughness.  He tried to say something as I approached but I plunged a taser into his chest before he could spit it out.  He fell immediately and gave a little twitch.  I was hoping for a bit of spit up but one can’t have everything.  J and I looked at each other and giggled a bit.  I was only about a block from my house so I decided to drag him back.  I picked up his left leg and pulled him from behind me.  It must have looked like one of those old cartoons that show a caveman dragging his wife around.  It must have looked pretty funny.

When we got back to my house I propped him up on my bed.  His head was only a little bit scratched from being dragged along the sidewalk.  He was starting to come to so I gave him another jolt.  He arched his back and spit up on my face.  It was bliss.  My friend J walked in and asked how everything was going.  He wanted to know how I was going to keep the boy unconscious without frequent taserings which would eventually cause cardiac arrest.  “I used to be very interested in the concept of a third eye when I was younger,” I explained.  “There are people so extreme in their belief in the beneficial aspects of this that they actually drill a hole into their own scull to access this power,” I continued.  “I studied this so I know what points supposedly access the powers of the third eye and what simply causes permanent brain damage.  Suffice it to say, our friend here will not be experiencing the joys of neuro occultism.”  We both laughed.  Then I got the drill.

Turning the boy into a vegetable had many benefits.  For one, his eyes remained open.  He also drooled a bit but not so much that it was a real problem.  It certainly provided lubrication for his mouth which was a real plus.  J was all hepped up about punching the boy in the face a bunch.  Some asshole had almost doored him earlier in the day and a cop who had witnessed it did nothing.  I agreed to let him do this but I had something I wanted to do first.  I pushed him down on my bed so he was on his stomach.  J left the room to drink beers and watch Ugly Americans.  I told him to close the door behind him.  I pulled the boy’s jeans down which revealed that he was wearing yellow boxer briefs with green trim.  What a fag.  When I pulled these off I was faced with his plump little ass: delectable, round and brown.  I rubbed myself to get fully hard, got out my cock and went to town.  He was quite moist inside so  I didn’t have any problems with lubrication.  While I was doing this I was reminded of a blog post by Noke.  “I have a teen boy and I’m bopping his butt, bopping his butt, bopping his butt…” I recited to myself.  When I finally came the jizzum gurgled up out of his areshole.  It was bliss.  He drooled a bit on my sheets.  He was loving it, apparently.

I went to check on J and found him appropriately buzzed.  Louder than usual.  I knew he was still hepped up about almost getting doored so I let him work out his aggression on our little zombie boy.  He sat him up on the bed and began pummeling him in the face.  It didn’t take long for blood to start running from the boy’s nose.  I left the room to get some beer.  When I came back the boy was on his back, blood pouring into his mouth and his eyes staring vacantly up at the ceiling.  J kept grunting, “Yeah, yeah!” with each punch.  Then he got out his dick and jerked off onto his face.  Once he came he mixed the jizzum in with the blood.  It looked like strawberry jam.  Quite beautiful, really.

J and I drank some more beers and decided that the fun of the night was over.  We stood up our zombie boy to make sure he could walk and luckily found that he could.  The blood, saliva  and cum mixture had dried to look quite frightening.  Much more like a movie zombie.  We got him walking like an automaton and took him outside. Then we shoved him in the direction of a 19th century cemetery which was up the street.  We got a big kick out of that one.

Happy Halloween Everyone!